The Sunday Poem: Margaret Randall… Tipping Point

I heard that sometime within the next five years, there will actually be more guns in the U.S. than people. Is there no turning back? Must we live with instant death forever? How crass have we become? Is there a tipping point?

Margaret Randall continues her work here in Nob Hill and world-wide. She is an invited guest at the upcoming poetry festival in Granada, Nicaragua.

Tipping Point

Their teachers pass out crayons, tell stories to calm their fear,are willing to die trying to save themand die beside them instead.

A hundred thousand paper snowflakes infuse their town with solace.A president comes to console.Brieflya national conversation begins.

No stories or crayons, no snowflakesor national conversationfor Chicago’s children:just as tender but black or brown and poor, murdered each night by violenceunremarkable in ghetto land.

Every south side street cradles the bodyof some mother’s son, some kid who might still have timebefore answering the callto greater madness.

Bullets pierce air and walls and the heads of youngsters who might have grown to be teachers or doctorsmight have been able to go to patriotic war.

Feels strange to be the first to comment on this post, since the poem is mine. But it feels good to be sitting on the veranda of our hotel here on Granada's main plaza, reading a poem of mine just published back home--makes a welcome connection!

Thanks. Very helpful, Margaret. The beginning was remarkable. I was briefly stunned by the words "patriotic war," however, and stopped reading momentarily, wondered how you were going to handle the change of tone. I need not have worried, because the transition to another far away, dismal venue that moved the theme along worked beautifully.